


Too Like the Lightning

by voidknight



Series: Two Michaels vs. the Existential Turmoil of Being Human [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Character Study, Conversations, Enemies to Friends, Existential Angst, Existentialism, First Dates, Flirting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Philosophy, Screenplay/Script Format, Showers, The Buried - Freeform, The Spiral, Time Skips, rarepair time wooo, the vast, their dynamic is just really fascinating to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidknight/pseuds/voidknight
Summary: Mike Crew meets The Distortion at the top of a building. They talk about fractals and vertigo and that which is endless.Or: a series of encounters between two Michaels, and the existential crises that always seem to result from them.
Relationships: Michael "Mike" Crew/Michael
Series: Two Michaels vs. the Existential Turmoil of Being Human [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760740
Comments: 41
Kudos: 120





	1. On Falling

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a crackship but then i was like wait. their dynamic would be interesting. and here we are! and i can't stop writing about them. enjoy
> 
> i realized after writing this that michael didn't become michael until way, way after mike bound himself to the vast, but we are just going to pretend that the timeline is different because this is fanfic and it doesn't matter
> 
> title is a quote from romeo and juliet!

_Two people stand on a rooftop at night._

_MIKE, also known as MICHAEL CREW, is short, his coat billowing and scarf flowing in the wind. He stands poised at the edge of the roof; a single push could send him toppling all the many stories into the street below. He does not seem to mind; in fact, he stares out across the city skyline as if he’s the most comfortable person in the world._

_MICHAEL, also known as THE DISTORTION (and perhaps MICHAEL SHELLEY to some, though they wouldn’t quite be correct), is tall, his loose shirt dyed a bright shade of a color-that-might-exist. His long blonde hair curls and spirals in the breeze. He watches Mike with kaleidoscopic eyes from his vantage point in the middle of the roof._

MICHAEL: Are you going to jump off?

MIKE: Believe me, there is nothing I’d rather do.

MICHAEL, _laughing:_ I’m beginning to think you have a death wish.

MIKE: It isn’t the dying that I’m so eager for.

_He peers downwards. A fall of this distance would almost certainly be fatal._

MICHAEL: You want to fall forever.

MIKE: Isn’t it cruel? The longer the distance—the longer the time in the air—and the more certain the death? When I do die, I hope it _is_ from falling a bit too far. That untethered descent, more freeing than a skydive or a ride at the fair, and yet…

MICHAEL: And yet you believe it would kill you.

_Beat._

MICHAEL: What if I pushed you?

MIKE: You wouldn’t.

MICHAEL: I could.

MIKE: I’m flattered by the suggestion, but I know that isn’t how your patron feeds. You’d rather just usher me through the wrong door, like you’ve done so many times.

MICHAEL: I do not think your soul is meant to be bound to the Distortion, Michael Crew.

MIKE: Can’t say I’m surprised.

_Michael comes closer, peeks over the edge of the building, then steps back, smiling at Mike._

MIKE: Is this it, then? Are you finally going to kill me?

MICHAEL: Who says that you would die if you fell?

MIKE: Everything. All the laws of physics. You _know_ this.

MICHAEL, _giggling:_ But Michael, what is reality to the Spiral? Would you like to fall forever? Vertigo is only in the mind, after all.

MIKE: I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish.

MICHAEL: Maybe I’m just trying to help you.

MIKE, _scoffs:_ Help?

MICHAEL, _slow and drawling:_ Oh, Michael, we are not enemies; I did not carve that fractal scar into your back, as much as I do love to look upon it. But if you were to fall today there is no one who would catch you.

_Mike stiffens. Michael notices._

MICHAEL: No, you haven’t found a way to call upon the Vast, yet, have you?

MIKE: Would you stop twisting your words for once and tell me what you want from me.

_Michael comes forward to stand right in front of Mike. Even though Mike is standing on the small ledge at the roof’s edge, Michael is still taller._

MICHAEL: I come to offer you some relief, is all.

_Michael watches him with that weird and wonderful smile. Mike is beginning to catch on to what’s going on._

MICHAEL: What is the Vast to you? Do you fear it? Do you love it? Do you just want to throw yourself into it, surrender your body and soul to the open and the free? Be…

_He giggles._

MICHAEL: …Be consumed by that which loves you?

MIKE, _laughs dryly:_ The Hive is not for me, Michael.

MICHAEL, _keeps laughing:_ Oh, I am only jesting. I know that the Vast does not love you, and you love it all the more for that.

MIKE: …And you. Why the Spiral?

MICHAEL: I thought we were talking about you.

MIKE: I’m curious. Why did you join yourself to the Spiral?

MICHAEL: Why does anyone? I was tricked, in a way.

MIKE: Do you love your patron?

MICHAEL: What _am_ I? What am I to my patron?

MIKE: That’s… not… this is going nowhere.

MICHAEL: Oh, I disagree. We don’t call ourselves the Circle, do we?

_He laughs again, as if this joke is particularly clever, and puts a light hand on Mike’s arm._

MIKE: Are you flirting with me?

MICHAEL, _grinning:_ I could be. What makes you say that?

MIKE: Does a Distortion even… have those sorts of… no, it doesn’t matter. You just want to mess with me.

MICHAEL: Maybe. Is that a bad thing?

MIKE: I suppose it’s just in your nature.

MICHAEL: That’s it. _Nature._

_Mike surveys Michael with a mix of curiosity and reservation._

MIKE: I don’t suppose asking what you want again would yield any more answers.

MICHAEL: Oh, no, the question is what do _you_ want? You want to be held by the singing wind, and you want your mind to twist with vertigo, and you want to be everything and nothing at all—and I can do none of these things for you, but perhaps I could help a little, is all I’m saying. I see how you look at me with that longing and that disgust, because you want to _know,_ but I am not something to be _known,_ Michael Crew. I am just an experience, and though I may be a maddening one, isn’t that what lovers crave?

_He puts his hands on Mike’s waist. Mike leans closer, enticed._

MICHAEL: What is it about falling? Something about the rush?

MIKE: Yeah. Something like that.

_He wraps his arms around Michael’s shoulders and kisses him. There’s a note of “what the hell, why not” in his action. They sway at the edge of the building, so close to falling off but never doing so. It’s quiet and passionate. Michael picks Mike clear off the ground and carries him towards the center of the roof, spinning around and around._

MIKE, _laughing:_ I’m dizzy.

MICHAEL: Good.

_He kisses him some more, clearly having lots of fun, then puts him down on solid ground._

MIKE, _disoriented:_ Wow. You’re good.

MICHAEL: I have practice.

_Mike stands up straight, and takes a step away from Michael, looking more than a little embarrassed._

MIKE: Was all that really just to get me to kiss you?

MICHAEL: Oh, no. I enjoy confusing banter. We should do this again sometime.

MIKE: Is it lonely in the Distortion?

MICHAEL: I am the Distortion.

MIKE: So you never get…

MICHAEL: For one to be alone, they must be an _individual._ Wholly real and really whole. Do not worry about me. Enjoy your sky. I think I understand why you like it so much.

_He opens a door that was not there before, and disappears through it._


	2. On Patrons and Fractals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another meeting.

_ MIKE CREW sits in a near-empty coffee shop at night. He doesn’t appear to have bought anything—just stares out the window, lost in thought. The room is cool but he wears only a thin shirt, collar buttoned all the way up. One tip of a white scar is visible on his neck. _

_ The barista stands at the counter in a sort of stupor. He doesn’t seem to take notice of Mike. It is too late for a coffee shop like this to be open. _

_ A door opens, and MICHAEL, THE DISTORTION, steps through. His technicolor outfit places him in stark contrast to the shop’s dim lights and muted tones—or maybe something about him would make him stand out anywhere, stand out from reality. Though he can blend in perfectly when he wants to, tonight, he makes little effort to do so. _

_ In the window, Mike catches a glimpse of the figure behind him—too tall, too curving, too spiraling, proportions wrong, fingers long and pointed. He turns, fixing surprised eyes upon the tall, blonde man (?) he knows a little too well. _

MIKE: Michael. What are you doing here?

MICHAEL: Visiting my friend. Are we friends?

MIKE: I… don’t know, to be honest.

MICHAEL: Ah, well. It doesn’t matter. Can I get you anything?

MIKE: You don’t have to; I can—

MICHAEL: Please, I insist.

MIKE: Then, uh, something decaf I suppose.

_ Michael goes up to the counter, exchanges some brief words with the barista, and pays with something that is not money. He returns to Mike’s table and sits across from him. _

MICHAEL: How is your sky?

MIKE: Vast. Wonderful.

MICHAEL: You succeeded, then. I thought you had a new…  _ air _ about you.

MIKE,  _ smiling: _ Shut up.

MICHAEL: Did you use the book?

_ Mike rummages through his bag and pulls out  _ Ex Altiora.  _ He makes to shove it back, but Michael grasps his wrist before he can do so. Mike freezes, then cautiously sets the book on the table. Michael picks it up and flips through it until he finds the woodcut of the empty night, white lightning branching across it. His face is unreadable. _

MIKE: You knew what I had to do.

MICHAEL: Yes… yes, a branch of the Twisting Deceit. A pity.

MIKE: To you, maybe.

MICHAEL: Am I not allowed to grieve a little for my trapped sibling? Both of us would fear an end like that, you know. Bound to a book. Crushed into two dimensions. A loss of freedom.

_ He closes  _ Ex Altiora _ and slides it back to Mike. _

MICHAEL: But it is nice and ironic, isn’t it. In ensnaring your pursuer, you freed yourself not only from them but from the earth itself!

_ The coffee is ready. Michael stands and goes to fetch it, bringing back two cups—one full and one empty. Mike takes his coffee, fingers brushing against Michael’s. He doesn’t drink it. _

MIKE: Is this another one of your “we are not so different after all” speeches?

MICHAEL: The sky is vast; space is endless. My corridors could branch into infinity if they so chose. They are made to lose yourself in. Do you think, Michael Crew, that if you wandered far enough you could become one with the sky?

MIKE: I thought you said I was not meant to be bound to the Distortion.

MICHAEL,  _ laughing: _ Oh, no, you are much too stuck on your petty  _ reality _ for that, though I do wonder what good reality would do on the kind of scales that you crave. But even then, that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate similarities.

_ Mike sips at his coffee, thinking. _

MIKE: Are you following me on purpose?

MICHAEL: I would say that we simply keep running into each other.

MIKE: So you’re not… drawn to me for whatever reason.

MICHAEL: Oh, but I am.

_ He pushes himself onto the table and scoots over until he’s sitting right in front of Mike’s face, then reaches out and unbuttons the top of his shirt. Mike lets out a tiny breath, but doesn’t stop Michael as he traces his fingers along the lines of his scar. _

MICHAEL: You were obsessed with these patterns, weren’t you?

MIKE: Why wouldn’t I be? They’re part of my skin. I couldn’t escape them if I tried.

MICHAEL: And thus the Spiral marked you. Tell me, Michael, did they seem neverending? Did their endless arcing terrify and fascinate you?

MIKE: All the time.

MICHAEL: Well, there you have it. An intersection of fear and passion. Don’t you think that’s interesting?

_ He makes to unbutton more of Mike’s shirt, but Mike catches his hand, shaking his head and glancing pointedly at the barista. The barista’s back is to them, lost in his own world. _

MIKE: Not here.

_ Michael removes his hand and slides back into his own seat. Mike, a bit flustered, does his shirt up again, making sure that the collar hides his scar. _

MIKE: At least you don’t behave like my tormentor.

MICHAEL: No, the way I branch is not like the lightning, though I do have an affinity for fractals. My presence is not heralded by the scent of ozone. Like your tormentor, I mean no real harm to you, but unlike them, I have no interest in causing you fear.

MIKE: Why?

MICHAEL: Why not?

MIKE: Why not drive me into more painful madness?

MICHAEL: Because I like you.

_ He giggles and rubs an affectionate thumb across Mike’s cheek. Mike reddens slightly. _

MIKE: It would be so easy to just betray my trust and leave me to be consumed by the Spiral. Why haven’t you?

MICHAEL,  _ delighted: Trust? _ Do you  _ trust _ me?

MIKE: Well, I—I don’t know.

MICHAEL,  _ singsong: _ My dear Michael Crew, it would be foolish to trust that which distorts truth for their own gain.

_ Mike finishes his coffee, then sighs, a smile tugging at his lips. _

MIKE: You are absolutely impossible to converse with.

MICHAEL: Excellent.

MIKE: But, in order to keep things simple, I think I’ll take at least one claim of yours at face value. I don’t think you do mean me harm.

MICHAEL: And if I did?

_ Mike’s fingers idly play across the cover of  _ Ex Altiora.  _ Michael sucks in an instinctive breath as a wave of vertigo crashes over him. A second later, he grins, maybe a bit too wide. _

MICHAEL: Oh, come on, if you wanted to make me swoon, there are much more… stimulating ways.

MIKE,  _ surprised: _ You…

MICHAEL: …Seem less affected than you’d expect? I am no human. Height and depth and  _ space _ mean nothing to me.

MIKE: …Am I human, then?

MICHAEL: Are you? Does a human leap from a belltower and live? Or must he first rupture the veil of reality, allow himself to be torn away, plucked by the boundless hand of the expanse to which he has promised his soul? And when he returns, lying electrified in the all-consuming rain, the edges of his being still frayed from his sudden displacement, is he the same person he was at the beginning of his descent?

_ Silence. The barista is gone. No light shines outside the coffee shop. Mike shudders. _

MICHAEL: There is joy and pain in becoming and unbecoming. Whatever you are now, you have a purpose to embrace.

MIKE: I… yes. Yes, I do.

_ He stands abruptly, staring into the distance. _

MICHAEL: Then I suppose I will be seeing you.

_ Mike picks up his bag and places  _ Ex Altiora _ back into it. He walks towards the door, then stops, looks back at Michael. _

MIKE: Is this the right one?

MICHAEL: The door?

MIKE: It’s not one of yours, is it?

MICHAEL: What difference does it make? Regardless, you’d end up where you need to be.

_ Mike pushes the door open and steps out into the night. It’s raining lightly. Michael smiles, and exits in a different direction. _


	3. On Romance and Monstrosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first date isn't complete without some philosophical rambling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literary theory referenced: "Monster Culture (Seven Theses)" by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen

_ MIKE stands in his bedroom. It is spacious and mostly bare, giving the impression that he moved in fairly recently. Countless books are squeezed onto a small shelf by his bed. A massive window takes up the majority of one wall; a glass sliding door leads out onto a small balcony with a metal table and chair. Mike’s flat is at the very top of a tall building—the view of the London skyline is breathtaking. It’s early evening, and the sky is awash with pink and blue. _

_ A rhythmic knock sounds at the door that leads neither to the balcony nor to the rest of the flat. Questioning, Mike heads towards it—then stops, watching, suspicious. The knock comes again. _

_ No sooner has Mike placed his hand on the doorknob than MICHAEL is before him, a flower-that-is-not-a-rose held daintily between his sharp fingers. He is smiling. His eyes are the wrong color and he might have too many teeth. The not-rose quivers slightly, pulsing, its hue gradually shifting between impossible gradients. _

MICHAEL: For you.

MIKE: How romantic.

_ He tries to take the flower, but it bursts into a cluster of butterflies. Mike draws his hand away, a trickle of blood running down his fingertips. _

MICHAEL: I’m sorry. But it’s much more interesting this way, you know.

MIKE: The butterflies are a nice touch. Can I get you some tea?

MICHAEL: Ah, no thank you. I’m more of a coffee person myself.

MIKE: I thought there’d be a bit more of a getting-to-know-you phase before you literally, well, appeared in my bedroom.

MICHAEL: And what does that mean to you, Michael?

MIKE,  _ flustered: _ Oh, um, Mike is fine—

MICHAEL: Perhaps I just wanted to see you, and right at this moment, you happened to be in your bedroom.

MIKE: Right. …What do you think of the view?

_ Michael glances at the window. A black void stares back. _

MICHAEL: What view?

MIKE: …Ah.

_ Beat. Mike runs a hand through his hair, gaze flitting around the room in search of something—an explanation, a conversation topic, anything. Michael stands eerily still. _

MIKE: Were you human once?

MICHAEL:  _ Michael _ was human. And a foolish one at that.

_ He giggles. _

MIKE: So I don’t suppose you have any more idea than I do about how these things are supposed to go.

MICHAEL: Hmmm?

MIKE: You know. Maybe we should… go out, or something. Go see a movie. Do you like movies?

MICHAEL: No.

MIKE: What about… fairs? Or—or a beach, maybe? Do you like the ocean?

_ Michael laughs and laughs as Mike desperately tries to think up potential destinations for a regular human date. _

MIKE: We could just go to dinner…?

MICHAEL: Oh! And it’s about suppertime now, isn’t it?

_ Mike looks out the window. The evening sky has returned. _

MICHAEL: Where would you like to go?

MIKE: There’s, uh, there’s an Italian place two blocks down?

_ Michael ushers him towards a new door. Mike squints at it. _

MIKE: We could walk.

MICHAEL: Or we could not.

MIKE: Fine.

_ He steps towards the door, and does not walk to the Italian restaurant, bustling with activity, an empty table for two in the corner by the window. The two of them take their seats. _

MIKE: Don’t you think getting there is part of the fun?

MICHAEL: Of course. …Oh! Did you mean  _ walking? _

_ He laughs. Mike shushes him, but can’t help smiling himself. _

MIKE: It’s about the  _ journey. _ Traveling through the open air. The wide streets. Feeling the sky on your back.

MICHAEL,  _ still laughing: _ If you enjoy walking so much, I know a series of beautiful corridors that might interest you. Would you like to walk forever? Oh—oh, no, of course, you’d rather  _ fall, _ wouldn’t you? Well,  _ up _ and  _ down _ are meaningless as it is. Something could certainly be arranged.

_ A waiter comes by. Mike is caught off guard, but he quickly orders for himself—spaghetti bolognese. Michael doesn’t speak and the waiter doesn’t ask about him. _

MIKE: See, Michael, every time we see each other you try to tell me that you’re  _ not _ trying to pull me back into the Spiral, and right now, I’m not so convinced.

_ Michael tilts his head, leans forward, putting on an expression filled with sorrow and a hint of glee. _

MICHAEL: Oh, allow me a  _ little _ longing for what could have been.

MIKE: In another life, maybe.

MICHAEL: Or in this one. If things had gone a little differently.

MIKE: Tell me. Did the Spiral love me?

MICHAEL: The Spiral loved you with a forked tongue and a thousand tricks and a passion so bright it blinded you. Blinded you to the possibilities, perhaps. Do you remember what I said about fear and desire? In a way, they’re a little bit the same, aren’t they? Don’t both involve a kind of obsession? Doesn’t fear get one’s heart racing?

MIKE: I didn’t obsess over lightning and fractals and storms because I loved them.

MICHAEL: But you love the sky.

MIKE: I do. But a storm is what happens when  _ something _ invades that  _ nothing. _ It’s violent. I don’t want anything to do with that.

MICHAEL: Of course. You may not be above killing but you are not one for  _ slaughter. _

_ Mike shifts uncomfortably in his chair. _

MIKE: I think you’ve made your point quite clear—

MICHAEL,  _ giggling: _ Oh no! Clarity is the enemy of distortion. Let me see if I can convolute it some more. You—

MIKE: No! No, no, stop talking. Look. I’ll give you what you want to hear. Yes, I am bound to the Vast. Yes, I have a complicated history with the Spiral. Yes, if I’d acted differently, if I’d known more about the world and the forces of fear, if I’d embraced that which branded me, things would be… well, they would be different.

MICHAEL: Yes. And you still  _ are _ to the Spiral, even if those threads have been cut.

_ He touches a light finger to the tip of Mike’s scar. _

MICHAEL: Do you still sometimes feel like the scars extend beyond your flesh? A severed umbilical cord? A phantom limb? Dead arms wrapped around you, their afterimage etched into your skin like a fossil?

MIKE: Stop it.

MICHAEL,  _ withdrawing his hand: _ Because you are not  _ just _ a person, Michael Crew. Perhaps you feel like whatever is  _ you _ goes farther than your body. When the entities touch you, your consciousness begins to seep past its original arbitrary confines. Into the sky, maybe. Or somewhere else entirely.

MIKE: Like you.

MICHAEL,  _ with a wide smile: _ And what am I?

MIKE: To me?

MICHAEL: To anything.

MIKE: You’re the Distortion. Deceit. A door. Space that is not space. Hallways. More than just what is  _ here. _

MICHAEL: Yes.

MIKE: And?

MICHAEL: They say that monstrosity is inherently linked with the forbidden. That there is an attraction to transgression, envying the freedom and the despair of that which is able to exist beyond these boundaries.

MIKE: Is a door a boundary?

MICHAEL: And crossing through it an act of  _ transgression. _ Translation? Transition.

MIKE: Then you’re the monster.

MICHAEL: Because I transgress space. Reality. But, shouldn’t monstrosity exist beyond the bounds of “monster” and “not monster”?

MIKE: I suppose?

MICHAEL: What am I if I am both the door and what exists beyond? Am I an instrument? The boundary itself? Did  _ I  _ turn Michael Shelley into a  _ monster? _ Such a simplification. Did you know that one can walk themselves into a liminal existence? Ah,  _ liminal, _ that’s a good word. Where  _ is _ the threshold of becoming?

MIKE: I really have no idea what you’re talking about.

MICHAEL,  _ gleeful: _ Isn’t category crisis such an enticing possibility?

MIKE: I’m not particularly keen on  _ becoming _ you, if that’s what you’re saying.

MICHAEL: No! No, of course not. It all goes back to fear and desire. Do you desire completeness from the touch of something  _ outside _ yourself, or do you fear being remade?

_ A pause as Mike tries to think this over. _

MIKE: So we’re both… sort of… we both have these liminal identities. You want me to what, be proud of that? Or is that why we’re so drawn to each other…? Or…

MICHAEL: And what is  _ identity _ to that which embodies—or simply  _ is; _ “body” is too strong a word—a concept? A fear?

MIKE: I guess this is just something you have to accept as an avatar. This… unravelling of self.

MICHAEL: Or an inability to tell where “self” ends and “other” begins? Ooh, the Stranger would  _ love _ that… hybrids, cyborgs, you and not-you.

MIKE: Yeah…

_ Beat. _

MIKE: But I’m still Mike.

MICHAEL: If you want to be.

MIKE: And you’re still Michael.

MICHAEL: No.

MIKE: No??

MICHAEL: I do not want to be Michael.

MIKE: Who do you want to be?

MICHAEL: I want to be something with a purpose. But that is neither here nor there.

_ He giggles. _

MIKE: Are you real?

_ Michael’s laughter spirals through the room, yet only reaches Mike’s ears. _

MICHAEL: That is a very silly question. Do you have any better ones?

MIKE: You said that the Spiral loved me.

MICHAEL: Yes.

MIKE: Do  _ you _ love me?

_ The waiter returns, and Mike starts. He puts down a plate of spaghetti in front of Mike and a plate of nothing in front of Michael. Mike stares at the waiter’s retreating back for a bit too long, confused. _

MICHAEL: When you were in primary school, did the adults ever tell the little girls that the boys who chased and teased them relentlessly were secretly the ones who liked them the most?

MIKE: Maybe…? I don’t think that’s—

MICHAEL: Well. There you have it.

MIKE: I don’t think I follow.

MICHAEL: Oh, it’s not a very good example; the Spiral cares not for gender or its twisted dynamics.

MIKE: Of course not.

_ Michael plucks a single strand of spaghetti from Mike’s plate and begins to wind it around his fork. He twists it and twists it, but it never seems to end, nor get any longer or shorter. _

MIKE: You could order your own pasta, you know.

_ Michael gives the fork another twirl, pulls out the rest of the spaghetti strand, and swallows it. There’s a very distinct sense that it’s been a while since Michael last actually ate something, and the whole movement looks unnatural. Mike grimaces. Michael grins. _

MIKE: I’m not sure if I want to eat this now.

MICHAEL: You’re still organic, aren’t you? You need to feed yourself!

MIKE: Or I could push a couple people off a building.

MICHAEL: The time will come for that. After all, that sustains you in a  _ different _ way, doesn’t it?

MIKE: Will there come a time when I don’t need to eat anymore?

MICHAEL: Maybe. I’m not the one to ask.

_ Mike looks at him for a couple seconds, then tentatively begins eating his spaghetti. _

_ They sit in silence for a long while. Mike, self-conscious about his meal-less companion, tries to eat quickly. As he does so, Michael fidgets with his utensils, bending all of them into tight spirals. _

_ As soon as Mike has finished his plate, Michael stands. _

MICHAEL: And there we are. A successful “dinner date,” would you say?

MIKE: Hold up. I need to pay.

MICHAEL,  _ amusedly incredulous: Do _ you?

MIKE: Yes!

_ Michael sits back down as Mike hails a waiter and asks for the check. _

MICHAEL: So you’re content with throwing people into the voids of the Vast, but—

MIKE: Shut up. I don’t feed my patron with stolen pasta.

_ The waiter returns; Mike pays, with a pointed glance at Michael as he does so. As the two of them stand to leave, Michael gestures towards a certain door. _

MIKE: No. I refuse. We’re walking.

MICHAEL: Oh, all right. I suppose we  _ did _ do it my way last time.

_ They exit out the proper door into the cool evening air. Mike appears to live somewhere around Belsize Park—the shops all exist as the ground floors of identical white houses, fancy and a little old fashioned. Trees are everywhere; greenery surrounds them. There are few people out and about.  _

MICHAEL: Mike.

MIKE: Yes?

MICHAEL: Would you like to hold hands?

MIKE: What?

MICHAEL: Isn’t that what people do on dates?

_ He extends his hand. It’s long, slender, and smooth, but not unnaturally so, not at the moment. Mike hesitates for a moment before grasping it in his own. _

MIKE: Your hand doesn’t feel much like a hand, honestly.

MICHAEL: That’s because it isn’t.

MIKE: Figured. Ah, well, I’ll take it.

_ They continue down a block or two. The buildings are very pretty. In some places, trees grow so tall they seem to obscure everything but the street. _

MICHAEL: I must say, I do enjoy performing romance.

MIKE:  _ Performing? _ What, this wasn’t a real date?

_ Michael breaks into peals of laughter. _

MICHAEL: What is a  _ real date? _ What is  _ real _ about a pattern of behavior? Again with these silly questions!

MIKE: Oh, I get it. Romance is a construct and all that.

MICHAEL: But it is a very fun one.

_ They’ve come to Mike’s flat—tall and brick-brown, with a small garden of bushes and vines. Mike drops Michael’s hand and lets them in. _

_ They climb three flights of stairs, then finally enter back into Mike’s home. In the center is a large living room connected to a small kitchen. Beside simple furniture, it looks like the only things with which Mike has bothered to adorn the flat are shelves and shelves of books. Another short flight of stairs leads to the bedroom. Windows are everywhere, displaying the night outside with its gradient of blues. _

_ The two of them stand somewhat awkwardly near the entrance. It looks as if Mike is trying to decide whether to lead Michael further into his home or just call it a night. _

MIKE: Sure you don’t want any tea?

MICHAEL: Quite sure, thank you.

MIKE: I’m afraid there’s not much to  _ do _ here, really; I only moved in last week. Unless you want to watch telly or something. Which I’m guessing you probably don’t.

MICHAEL: Hmm. Well… would you be interested in performing romance some more…?

_ He drapes his arms around Mike’s neck. _

MIKE: I suppose a date isn’t complete without a goodnight kiss, is it?

_ Michael grins and leans down to kiss him. Mike stands on his tiptoes to even out their height difference a little, wrapping his arms around Michael’s torso. It’s more subdued than their earlier rooftop makeout, but it feels a lot more genuine. _

MIKE: Do you want to, um…

_ He pulls Michael into the living room and they cuddle on the couch together, all tangled up. Michael’s grasp on human anatomy is slipping—maybe he has too many joints, too many fingers, too wide a grin. He gently tugs off Mike’s shirt and begins tracing the lines of his scar that travel down his chest. _

MIKE: Have you just been waiting to do that this whole time?

MICHAEL: Yes.

MIKE: Who’s the one obsessed with fractals now?

MICHAEL: It’s in my nature.

_ He puts his other hand on Mike’s back, twisting his fingers into inhuman arrangements so he can follow multiple lines at once. Mike shivers, leans closer, closing his eyes. They stay like that for a minute, nice and comfortable. _

MIKE: I honestly would not have pegged an aspect of the Spiral as the sort to desire any kind of… physical contact. Any kind of genuine, well, relationship.

MICHAEL: Oh, no, Mike, you mistake me! I’m only doing this because it’s  _ fun. _ Nothing about me is  _ genuine. _

MIKE: Really?

MICHAEL: What would you expect from the Distortion?

MIKE,  _ slightly miffed: _ Right. Another lie, I guess.

_ Michael removes his hands from Mike’s back and sits up, amused and maybe a little offended. _

MICHAEL: Oh, have I upset you? Were you expecting a perfect, straightforward love story and a boyfriend who showers you in candid emotion and laps all yours up in turn? Because I’m not a boy—not a  _ person _ —and I am anything but straightforward.

MIKE: I… yeah. Yeah. I know.

MICHAEL: I will play at romance with you, Mike Crew, because I enjoy your company and our twisting conversations and the way your skin feels and your lips taste, but do not forget what I am. Or what I am not.

MIKE: Of course. Yeah, I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

_ He chuckles, a bit nervously, then stops and sighs. _

MIKE: What am I doing. This is silly. Of course the Distortion isn’t…

_ He pulls his shirt back on, and stares at Michael for a while. Michael just smiles back placidly, waiting for him to make up his mind, perhaps delighted to be the source of such confusion. Finally, Mike laughs, all his tension gone. _

MIKE: Right! Don’t know what else I would’ve expected when I asked the Distortion on a date. Well, like you said, romance is fake anyway, so let’s just keep on doing whatever we think is fun, and that’ll be enough for me.

MICHAEL: Excellent.

_ He gives Mike another quick kiss, then stands and begins walking towards a door. _

MICHAEL: And this  _ was _ very fun. So. I will see you soon.

MIKE: When?

MICHAEL: Whenever I feel like it.

MIKE: I don’t suppose you have a number or anything.

MICHAEL,  _ giggling:  _ What, another useless string of characters to tie me to some arbitrary system in the material world? No, and I will not come when you call, either.

MIKE: Showing up when I least expect. Sounds like Michael all right.

MICHAEL: Exactly.

_ He waves, and exits out his door. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may write more of this if i get more ideas - but for now, this is as good an end point as any, i think. thanks for reading!


	4. On Humanity, (In)Completeness, and Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael finds Mike Crew buried in a forest clearing.
> 
> Set after MAG101, Another Twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa, this got long… inspiration struck!  
> can't escape those "all my favorite characters died in season 3" feels...
> 
> some parts of this are loosely inspired by this amazing fic by CuttlefishKitch:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932210
> 
> brief content warnings for this particular chapter: blood/injury, choking/suffocating, nudity (all non-graphic)  
> also, spoilers for the end of season 4
> 
> philosophical theory referenced: The Conscious Mind by David Chalmers

_ A thinly-wooded forest—or as close as one can get to a forest on the outskirts of a large English city. It’s quiet, out of the way, though a road can be seen through the trees, and cars occasionally rumble by. Signs of a scuffle still remain: the earth in this clearing is clearly disturbed. Most notably, in the middle of the clearing sits a lopsided mount, reminiscent of an unmarked grave. _

_ It has been barely two months since Jonathan Sims and Daisy Tonner buried MIKE CREW in this very spot. _

_ Shuffling footsteps alert us to the presence of a living (?) person. He enters the clearing from the direction of the road, and stares down at the mound before him. It is, apparently, MICHAEL; though MICHAEL SHELLEY might also work as an introduction in this scenario, he would be loath to call himself that. He is still tall, thin, with searching eyes and long, blonde, spiralling hair that cascades down his back. He appears to be wearing the tattered remains of an old winter coat. _

_ He is quiet, awkward, and painfully human. _

_ Michael crouches beside Mike’s grave, combing his average-length fingers through the earth. No emotion appears on his face. He sits there for a minute, two, five. Considering his options. _

_ Finally, Michael sits up. When he blinks, his eyes are the wrong colors. He bends down and reaches into the grave with too-long arms, slicing into space as it warps at his whim. With tremendous effort, he hauls the corpse of Mike Crew out of his Buried prison. The grave collapses in on itself as its occupant is removed. Michael lays Mike in the dirt beside it, and kneels over him, staring and staring into his death-white face caked with earth. _

_ Mike’s eyes snap open, and he begins to choke. _

MICHAEL: Ah—!

_ He pulls Mike into a seated position and violently claps him on the back. Mike wretches and sputters, completely bewildered, a little bit of blush coming back into his cheeks. He is covered head to toe in dirt; his hair is grimy and sticks up. There is a massive bloodstain streaked across his chest. _

MICHAEL: There we go. A little better now?

MIKE: Can’t—breathe—

_ He pushes himself onto his hands and knees and hacks up an awful lot of dirt—more than should have been in his throat. Muddy mucus drips from his nose. He looks horribly ill. _

_ Finally, it all dies down, and Mike collapses into Michael’s lap. Michael wraps his arms around his torso and holds him tight. By now, all of Michael’s Distortion features have faded away once more. He looks exhausted. Both of them do. _

MIKE,  _ hoarse: _ M… Michael?

MICHAEL: More or less.

MIKE: What the hell are you doing here?

MICHAEL: Thought I might pay my old friend a visit! I never did have many connections in the  _ real _ world, and, well. That wasn’t going to do at all.

_ Mike squints at the disturbed earth that once was a grave. His bloodshot eyes widen. _

MIKE: Did I—no—I thought I  _ died! _

MICHAEL: It’s hard to kill a servant of the Fears, but the Hunter almost managed it, didn’t she? And the Choking Earth would’ve done it soon enough, if not for my… intervention.

_ He giggles. It’s a strange sound, but not a preternatural one, not anymore. _

MIKE: How… how long have…

MICHAEL: Oh,  _ time? _ Yes, that’s something I suppose I’ll have to start remembering too! What a dreadful prospect.

_ Mike turns around—as much as he can with his weak body, still firmly held in Michael’s grasp—to study his companion’s face. _

MIKE: You’re human.

MICHAEL: Oh, only as much as you are. Maybe more, maybe less. Who’s to say?

MIKE: So you’re no longer the Distortion?

MICHAEL,  _ darkly: _ No. The Distortion is Helen now.

MIKE: I… okay.

_ Beat. _

MIKE: I don’t know how to feel about this.

MICHAEL: Oh, you are not alone.

MIKE: How are you liking, um, being made of flesh again?

MICHAEL: Horrible.

MIKE: I can imagine. Not liking it myself too much right now.

_ He spits another glob of earth and phlegm onto the ground and grimaces. _

MICHAEL: Oh, cheer up, Michael Crew! It isn’t as if this is the first time you’ve died.

MIKE: Problem is, first time around it made me feel more  _ alive _ than I’ve ever been before. Now I just feel like  _ death. _ And choking dirt that gets everywhere and presses on all sides and spills into every part of me and  _ contaminates _ like the wretched filth it is—

_ Michael begins to brush the dirt off of Mike, starting with his neck and shoulders and arms. He can’t help but stop and fixate once again upon his lightning scar, even more visible now against Mike’s too-pale flesh. _

_ Mike looks down at his bloody shirt and makes a noise of disgust. _

MIKE: And she  _ shot _ me!!

MICHAEL: Oh dear.

MIKE: Do you… suppose the bullet’s still in there?

MICHAEL: Only one way to find out!

_ He rocks forward and gently lays Mike on his back, crouching over him again. Michael’s fingers distort and sharpen, and he plunges one into Mike’s torso. Mike cries out, though more in surprise than in pain. In the blink of an eye, Michael plucks out the bullet and discards it. Mike heaves a ragged sigh and closes his eyes. Fortunately, no fresh blood appears to spill from his wound. _

MIKE: So you’ve still got some Spiral powers, have you?

MICHAEL: I cannot escape the touch of the Twisting Deceit, though once it realizes I cannot feed it anymore I doubt I will be able to channel its powers against reality.

MIKE: Well. Thank you for that. For…

_ He chuckles. _

MIKE: For saving my life, even!

MICHAEL: Oh, it was my pleasure, Mike Crew.

_ He leans down and strokes his long—not too long—fingers through Mike’s hair, picking out the clumps of dirt. _

MIKE: You seem different.

MICHAEL: More  _ human? _

MIKE: Maybe. Less… confusing.

MICHAEL,  _ laughing: _ I no longer feel the call of lies and delusion quite so strongly.

MIKE: Wow. A lot’s… a lot’s changed, huh.

MICHAEL: Everything twists and changes, every day, every second. We are not unique.

MIKE: But we almost died. And here we are. Not dead.

MICHAEL: Tsk tsk. Be careful in your assumptions. I did not  _ almost die. _ I was simply… expelled. A paradox un-became me and I was thrown back into a wretched half-existence. And the Distortion is complete without me and I am incomplete without it.

MIKE: Maybe it’s better this way.

_ Michael removes his fingers from Mike’s hair, suddenly offended. _

MICHAEL: Better? Because suddenly my body fits into a framework with which you are familiar? Because you can  _ understand _ me?

MIKE: Well, yes. I think we’re on the same wavelength now. I don’t know. Maybe we always were. It’s weird.

MICHAEL: No. You don’t understand. I want to arc and twist in directions that do not exist, and I want to continue to be the extension of something bigger than myself which is and is not part of my _ self, _ and I want to float two paces to the left of anything that might be called  _ reality, _ and I want to be disjointed and cut-off and spiralling and oh so  _ free, _ but instead I am small and heavy and filled with blood and organs that all conspire to chunter on, to continue with my painful being, tie me down in a  _ form _ that is more than a wisp and a blur and a melody.

_ Pause. Mike stares up at him in a sort of awe. Michael’s expression is pained and real and  _ human.

MIKE: You… aren’t really the Michael I knew, huh.

MICHAEL: I am Michael Shelley plus Distortion minus Distortion, and if math were real then that would make me simply Michael Shelley, yet I  _ know _ that I am not.

_ Michael’s hand droops near Mike’s shoulder. Mike takes it in his and squeezes it. _

MIKE: Hey. I’m sorry. Poor phrasing. Maybe it isn’t  _ better this way. _ That sounds like a rotten thing to have to go through. I just mean to say that I think we’re on the same page. Same shitty situation.

MICHAEL: …Yes. I think that we are.

_ There’s a long silence. Michael drops Mike’s hand, then steps over him and lays down in the dirt beside him, staring up at the sky. It looks like it’s evening. _

MICHAEL: Can you feel the call of the Vast?

MIKE: It’s faint. The Buried still tugs at me.

MICHAEL: Do you intend to resume your role as an avatar?

MIKE: Haven’t the foggiest idea. I suppose I’ll have to.

_ He rolls onto his side and faces Michael. _

MIKE: Or maybe we’re both disconnected enough from our respective entities that… that they won’t begin to feed on us. I don’t really know how this works. Maybe I’ll ask Simon.

_ Beat. _

MIKE: What are  _ you _ going to do?

MICHAEL: I don’t know… my first and last step was finding you.

MIKE: And you really needed me enough that you’d wrench me from almost-certain death?

MICHAEL: I thought you would ground me. Pardon the pun.

MIKE: Do you really have no one else?

MICHAEL: What, am I supposed to show up at the Archivist’s doorstep and apologize for trying to kill him?

MIKE,  _ laughing: _ Apologize? Now you really don’t sound like Michael.

MICHAEL: Apologies can get you many places, Mike. I can  _ apologize _ without ever regretting my actions beyond wishing they hadn’t led to my downfall. But it doesn’t matter now. He’ll meet his end some other way, I’m sure. Besides, I have no real problems with the Archivist as a  _ person. _ But also absolutely no desire to see him again.

MIKE: Ha. Same. But, um. …Do you have, like… a family?

MICHAEL,  _ chuckles: _ If I did, do you really think I would crawl back to them in this sort of state? Their anxious little teacher’s pet son, missing for ten years and suddenly returns, a foot taller, having shed both his gender and all his connections to the real world, begins lying compulsively and staring at doorways for too long?

_ Mike laughs again, louder. _

MICHAEL: What?

MIKE: You’re just making it sound like… I don’t know. It’s so weird to consider something like… that. You trying to fit into a normal family or something.

MICHAEL: Exactly.

MIKE: Well, obviously that’s off the table. So I guess there’s me, then.

MICHAEL: Yes!

MIKE: And we’re both… fugitives from death, or something. Or nonexistence. Or whatever.

MICHAEL: I would very much appreciate a guide to living in reality.

MIKE: Brilliant. And a place to stay, I assume?

MICHAEL: That too.

MIKE: Then what are we waiting for?

_ He tries to sit up, but lets out a yelp of pain and doubles over. _

MIKE: I… think the stiffness is starting to get to me.

_ Michael stands and helps Mike to his feet. Mike clings to him, unsteady. _

MIKE: I’ve got a flat not far from here.

MICHAEL: A new one?

MIKE: Old one. Don’t think you’ve been, though. Do you suppose people will have noticed I’ve been gone?

MICHAEL: Oh, undoubtedly.

MIKE: Hope no one’s broken in or anything.

MICHAEL: That’ll be a fun surprise to look forward to!

_ Michael helps Mike out of the woods and down the road, back towards the town. It’s a strange sight—both of them look absolutely horrible, for completely different reasons. Michael is generally disheveled; Mike is dirty and bloody and still deathly pale. Michael continues to support Mike, whose legs are all wonky from misuse, though as they walk he limps less and less. Their slow procession earns them quite a few stares. _

MIKE: Under any other circumstances I think I might be tempted to go to a hospital.

MICHAEL,  _ giggling: _ You think they could help you?

MIKE: Obviously not.

_ They make their way down a couple streets of flats. _

MIKE: How long has it been since you… exited the Distortion?

MICHAEL: A few days. Maybe more. Time is difficult to keep track of.

MIKE: And you’ve just been wandering around?

MICHAEL: More or less. I had to escape the House of Wax first, of course. But that was easy. Getting from Great Yarmouth to Chichester was harder.

_ They arrive at Mike’s flat building. Mike stares at it for a couple seconds, then laughs dryly. _

MIKE: Don’t have my keys. Don’t suppose you could phase us through the door?

MICHAEL: Hmm. Not sure.

_ Mike rings the doorbell for the person who lives on the lowest floor. They wait for a minute. The door creaks open, revealing an elderly woman peering at Mike and Michael. Her face contorts in fear as she takes in Mike’s appearance. _

NEIGHBOR: Mr. Crew…?

MIKE: I’m fine. Been a rough few days, ha.

_ She exchanges a frightened glance with Michael. _

MICHAEL: You were gone for two months, I believe.

MIKE: ...Oh.

NEIGHBOR: I’m glad to see you alive. We were worried.

MIKE: Really…?

NEIGHBOR: Of course!

MIKE: I see. Well. Thank you. Has, um, has anyone been in my flat?

NEIGHBOR: We called the police after you disappeared. I don’t think they found anything.

MIKE: Took anything?

NEIGHBOR: No.

MIKE: Good. Thank you.

NEIGHBOR: I have a copy of your keys. Come in.

_ The two of them step into the building and stand awkwardly in the front room as the woman fetches Mike’s keys. She returns and tosses them to him. He nods in gratitude, and he and Michael begin their ascent up the stairs. _

_ Mike’s flat is much the same as he left it. It’s small but in no way cramped. There’s a large window in the living room, and bookshelves everywhere. Two chairs at the table are pulled out—where Mike once sat with Jon. _

_ The first thing Mike does is pour himself a huge glass of water and gulp the whole thing down. He coughs, grimaces, then begins to fill up the cup again. Michael wanders around the flat, taking it in. A big living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. After all, this is to be his home now, too. _

_ After finishing his third glass of water, Mike turns to Michael, who has been watching him silently. _

MIKE: You hungry?

MICHAEL: No.

MIKE: Me neither. Feels like I’ll never be hungry again, honestly.

MICHAEL: Perhaps neither of us will.

MIKE: Might feel nice to eat something, at least? It’ll get the taste of dirt out of my mouth.

_ He opens the fridge, and is greeted with the smell of something rotting. He closes the fridge. _

MIKE: ...Two months. Right. Might have some biscuits in the cupboard?

MICHAEL: Perhaps it could be worthwhile to eat, yes.

_ Mike produces a couple boxes of old biscuits, and he and Michael unenthusiastically make their way through one tin. Fortunately, they’re not too stale. _

MIKE: I don’t feel any different.

MICHAEL: Hm. I do not like having a stomach.

MIKE: Weren’t the corridors kind of like your stomach?

MICHAEL: Only in the most metaphorical sense.

MIKE: Right.

_ He puts the biscuits away. _

MIKE: I’m going to take a very long shower.

MICHAEL: May I join you?

_ Mike starts, and blushes. He is beginning to look more and more alive, though still somewhat sickly. Michael’s request is perfectly casual and innocent. _

MIKE: …Sure. You look like you could use one.

MICHAEL: Excellent.

MIKE: Just—leave your shoes out here. Coat too.

_ Michael is marginally shorter without his boots. In fact, he looks shorter in general now, but maybe that’s just because it seems he has lost much of the  _ presence _ he had when he was the Distortion. He hangs his faded coat on the coat rack and turns back to Mike. _

MIKE: How long have you had that?

MICHAEL: I appear to be wearing the same clothing that Michael Shelley was before he became m—became the Distortion. So… many years, I suppose.

_ It explains why everything looks a bit small on him. _

MIKE: Huh.

_ He steps into the bathroom and turns on the shower. Michael joins him, closing the door behind him. The space is a little cramped with two people in here, and, anticipating the effects of steam and body heat, Mike opens a window. _

MIKE: Let’s not make this awkward, okay?

MICHAEL: Oh, believe me, as fun as it might have been, I have no intention of tricking you into an embarrassing scenario. That’s a thing of the past.

MIKE: Oh really?

MICHAEL: Please. You said yourself that I could use a shower.

MIKE: I mean, it’s been what, like ten years since you were last in this body?

MICHAEL: It was not  _ this body. _ Bodies are… difficult to keep track of in the Distortion.

MIKE: What I mean to say is that you essentially haven’t showered in ten years.

_ Mike feels the water in the shower—pleasantly warm. He pulls off his shirt, sighing contentedly as if he’s peeling away another layer of the Buried. The lightning scar arcs down his back and chest, and Michael’s eyes go to it instantly, following its lines. Mike’s bullet wound, though caked with dried blood, looks like it’s mostly scarred over. An advantage of being not-quite-human. _

MICHAEL: Does it… hurt?

MIKE: Not much, actually.

_ He takes off the rest of his clothes and, not making eye contact with Michael, steps into the shower. As soon as he does, muddy water begins to flow down his body. He closes his eyes and works his fingers through his hair, dislodging more clumps of dirt. _

_ Michael undresses—though not without some difficulty, given how tight his old clothes must be now—and joins Mike in the shower. The two of them glance at each other, then look away. Mike wordlessly hands Michael a bar of soap. _

MICHAEL: Thank you.

_ Mike lathers soap over every inch of his body and pours too much shampoo into his hair. Still all the water that touches him becomes dirty and brown. _

MICHAEL: Are you feeling better?

MIKE: If by “better” you mean “less touched by the Buried”? Yes, this is helping.

_ He gives the shampoo to Michael, who is also cleaning himself, though much less vigorously than Mike is. When wet, his long blonde hair goes all the way down to his hips. He really does have a lot of it. Mike can’t help staring at it. _

MIKE: Haven’t cut your hair in ten years either, huh.

MICHAEL: Oh? Are you offering?

MIKE: N-no, I’m just, I’m just saying. I like it how it is.

MICHAEL: Good.

_ Mike takes a washcloth and scrubs it all over his face. _

MIKE: Amazing I’ve barely grown any stubble in two months. Maybe my body really did shut down.

MICHAEL: And yet you managed to stay at least somewhat alive. Though  _ alive _ is tricky to quantify.

MIKE: I can breathe. My heart still beats.

_ Michael comes up behind Mike and wraps his arms around his chest, placing his hands on his chest above his heart and nestling his face into his shoulder. Mike lets out a surprised breath, tensing up. _

MICHAEL: Yes. It does.

MIKE: I’m glad to have a second opinion.

MICHAEL: You’re welcome.

_ He kisses the back of Mike’s neck and goes back to his own scrubbing. The flush of Mike’s cheeks creeps across his face. _

MIKE: Hey—hold on—

_ He whips around, and looks directly at Michael’s face for the first time since they came in here. Michael, bemused, leans against the shower wall, studying his companion. _

MICHAEL: Yes?

_ Mike’s blush deepens, and he fixes his eyes back on his washcloth. _

MIKE: We are  _ not _ doing this again.

MICHAEL: Doing what?

MIKE: The homoerotic tension.

MICHAEL: Aren’t we in the most homoerotically tense situation possible?

MIKE: You said you weren’t going to make this awkward.

MICHAEL: Did I?

MIKE: Yes.

MICHAEL: Oh. Well, I’ll say no more.

_ He winks, and turns away from Mike, grabbing the bottle of conditioner and pouring some into his hand. He mixes it into his hair, combing his fingers through his long curls. _

MIKE,  _ quietly:  _ I missed you.

_ Michael whirls around, delighted. _

MICHAEL: You did? Oh, I’m flattered.

MIKE: I don’t think you ever said goodbye. Just… stopped showing up.

MICHAEL: Ah, yes, well, I had things to do. People to mislead. Archives to watch over. And you had your own people to push off buildings, trap in the sky, so on and so forth.

MIKE: I know. I’m just thinking.

MICHAEL: Did you love me, Michael Crew?

_ He says it so casually that for a moment it doesn’t register as the kind of question that it is. Mike starts. _

MIKE: I—don’t know.

MICHAEL: Good.

MIKE: Well. Alrighty then.

_ Silence for a moment. Michael steps closer to Mike. _

MICHAEL: Is it a human thing, to want to be held?

MIKE: Maybe. I mean, not inherently, but—

_ He makes a noise of exclamation as Michael folds one arm around his waist, and with the other pulls his head to his chest. Michael rests his chin on top of Mike’s head and closes his eyes, slowly running his fingers down Mike’s back. _

_ Everything slows down as the two of them hold perfectly still, not daring to breathe, not wanting to disturb the moment of genuine contact. _

_ Mike abruptly breaks away. He stumbles over to the other side of the shower, then flops down on the tiled floor, eyes red. _

MICHAEL: Mike…?

_ Without warning, Mike lets out a sob. The spell is broken. Michael, alarmed, crouches down beside him. _

MICHAEL: What is it?

MIKE: I don’t know. I don’t know. Sorry.

MICHAEL: I… see.

_ He lays an awkward hand on Mike’s shoulder. _

MICHAEL: I apologize. I am not good with  _ feelings. _

_ Mike takes a deep, shaky breath, eyes drying somewhat. _

MIKE: We haven’t seen each other in  _ years. _ And now you turn up and you’re all different but you’re the first real connection I have because I’ve been half-dead for two  _ fucking _ months, and that’s, that’s—that’s  _ messed up. _ This whole situation is all kinds of fucked up and I don’t know how to… I’m a ghost in my own home and the literal Distortion—or former Distortion, whatever—is standing naked in my bathroom, and I just… what do we  _ do? _ What the hell are we supposed to do when I’m not quite  _ me _ anymore and you’re no longer  _ you _ and you’re a ghost too? How do we start living again?

_ He sighs. He’s stopped crying, but his breath comes in short bursts. _

MICHAEL: I don’t know. I thought perhaps we could figure something out together.

MIKE: Oh yes,  _ together, _ yes, of course, but just— _ look _ at you!

_ He cups Michael’s face in his hands, agitated. _

MIKE: You’re—you’re  _ afraid. _

MICHAEL: Why would I not be afraid?

MIKE: Because you  _ are _ fear.  _ We _ are fear. We serve it and consume it and it fills us until we become it.

_ His hands fall to his sides. Michael leans over him. _

MICHAEL: I am not the Distortion, Mike. And you are not to the Vast what you once were. You said so yourself. We are something different now.

MIKE: I know. I know that.

MICHAEL: You once might have accepted it. Said that we are all just cogs in one vast machine.

MIKE: Sure. And you said that transformation is the way of the world. Nothing is immutable and therefore what is  _ real? _ But here we are. Scared. For our lives and for our fragile identities.

MICHAEL,  _ jokingly: _ If they are truly so fragile now, maybe the Unknowing already happened and we didn’t even realize.

MIKE: What?

MICHAEL: Never mind. But you are right. We’re stranded. And I am all too similar to you now—all my power, my dimensions, parts of my  _ mind _ itself, stripped from me—and it terrifies you because you have always seen me as a thing that was  _ not _ like you. Though we both served, and we both fed. But there is something unknowable about the Spiral, don’t you think? And perhaps you are scared to think that I am now something that could be  _ known. _

MIKE: It frightens me how quickly you seem to accept that.

MICHAEL,  _ pained: _ Look at me. I have a body. I have skin, and you have felt it, and you know that it is real. I have bones and they are not just in my hands. I have a face and a name that confine me.

MIKE: It’s horrible. It’s not the  _ you _ that I know.

MICHAEL: Not “better this way,” hmm?

MIKE: Shush. I was wrong.

_ Michael strokes Mike’s cheek. _

MICHAEL: It’s okay.

_ He presses a gentle kiss to Mike’s forehead. They sit together quietly for a minute. Mike closes his eyes, then opens them again. _

MIKE: This is too intimate.

MICHAEL: I’m too  _ real? _

MIKE: Maybe.

MICHAEL: I thought you wanted me to be real. Maybe then our romance could be more than make-believe, right?

MIKE: I… don’t know. I really have no idea.

MICHAEL: We could leave the shower at any time.

MIKE: Not yet. I still have some dirt on me.

MICHAEL: How do you know?

MIKE: I can feel it.

MICHAEL: What if it never washes away?

MIKE: It will.

_ Beat. Neither of them makes any move to stand up. _

MICHAEL:  _ I  _ could leave.

MIKE: No, no, I… don’t leave.

MICHAEL: I thought you said this was too intimate.

MIKE: Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

MICHAEL: It is a strange thing to be  _ known, _ isn’t it?

MIKE,  _ chuckling: _ Oh, believe me, this is nothing compared to my encounter with the Archivist.

MICHAEL: Oh, yes, he does have that effect, doesn’t he?

MIKE: He sure does.

_ He sighs, and pulls himself to his feet. _

MIKE: Let’s finish up here.

_ They continue in silence for a little while. Mike is looking much cleaner, and a good deal healthier, too, though he can’t scrub away his new pallor. It looks like it’s taking all his concentration to not stare at Michael, who is, admittedly, quite beautiful, though now in a human way rather than an eldritch one. _

_ Finally, Mike turns off the water, steps out, and starts drying himself off. Michael follows suit, wringing out his absurdly long hair. _

MICHAEL: Is all the dirt gone?

MIKE: I think so.

MICHAEL: But you still feel it, don’t you.

MIKE: It’s not the  _ dirt; _ it’s… it’s that crushing, choking, the afterimage of that confinement. Like it’s still there, pressing at my skin. Though I know it’s not.

_ He wraps a towel around his waist and steps out of the bathroom. Michael does the same. _

MIKE: Hmm. I suppose you’ll need to borrow some clothes.

MICHAEL: Oh. Yes.

MIKE: I’m glad we’re both fairly skinny. Let’s see if I can find anything that’s  _ long _ enough…

_ In his bedroom—small and cozy, with a huge window, a messy desk, and an unmade bed with blue covers—he searches through his drawers, eventually tossing a bundle of clothes to Michael after picking some out for himself. Michael goes back into the bathroom to change. Mike hastily puts on his own clothes—a simple collared shirt and jeans—then opens the curtains of the window, staring out into the night sky, almost dark enough for stars. He looks exhausted. _

_ Michael returns sporting an emo band t-shirt that looks much too big for Mike. Probably something he was given a while ago. As it dries, Michael’s hair has begun to curl into ringlets again. _

MIKE: What are we supposed to do now?

MICHAEL: You just asked that.

MIKE: I suppose Simon might have some guidance. He usually does.

MICHAEL: Simon Fairchild?

MIKE: He’s my friend. …Do you have anyone like that? Anyone to guide you in Spiral things?

MICHAEL: …No?

MIKE: I don’t suppose you could talk to whoever’s the Distortion now.

MICHAEL: Helen. And no. Perhaps someday. But right now, I…

_ He joins Mike in staring out the window. He looks lost. _

MIKE: You mentioned the Unknowing.

MICHAEL: Oh, yes. I suppose that is a concern. If only either of us were in any position to  _ do _ anything about it.

MIKE: The ritual of the Stranger, right?

MICHAEL: Yes. As it happens, our identity troubles seem to be placing us closer to the Stranger than perhaps is preferable.

_ He giggles. _

MICHAEL: I suppose I will have to trust the Archivist to pull off his plan. Maybe it will even kill him for me.

MIKE,  _ confused: _ The Archivist is… trying to disrupt the Unknowing?

MICHAEL: The Beholding has a vested interest in preventing the Stranger from coming into this world. Does the Falling Titan not?

MIKE: No, I just… huh.

MICHAEL: What is it?

MIKE: I don’t think the Unknowing is going to succeed anyway. So it’s all sort of useless, isn’t it?

MICHAEL: Why would you think that?

MIKE: Because the rituals never succeed.

MICHAEL: Because there are plenty of meddling fools who figure out the perfect way to stop them.

MIKE: Even in the early days of the Fears? Every ritual ever attempted has failed. And that isn’t just because of a scheming Archivist.

MICHAEL,  _ frustrated:  _ Then why is it?

MIKE: Well, I overheard Simon talking with that Lukas fellow, the one who’s all close with the Magnus Institute’s founder—he reckons that you can’t have one fear without all the others. Because what is the Buried if you don’t know that there’s a sky? Or madness without the knowledge of what  _ should _ be reality?

_ Michael laughs, somewhat desperately. _

MICHAEL: No, that couldn’t be right. A Vast world is terrifying because there  _ is _ no ground. A Spiral world is terrifying because nothing  _ is _ real. There would be no light at all in a world of the Dark.

MIKE: I think it’s about how they define one another. In a world without light, you wouldn’t name the Dark because there is nothing that exists beside it.

MICHAEL: I don’t understand how this is supposed to undermine the concept of rituals.

MIKE: No, no, the way they described it was more like… all the boundaries are too arbitrary. There’s the violence of the Hunt and the violence of the Slaughter, the unknown of the Stranger and the unknown of the Dark, and how do you know the difference between that which you Do Not Know and that which Is Not What It Is?

_ Michael doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the window, unseeing. _

MIKE: I mean, all of this is purely theoretical. It doesn’t change the fact that there’s—

_ He stops, takes in Michael’s indignant expression. _

MIKE: You weren’t… planning a ritual yourself, were you?

_ Michael begins to laugh, a grating, hollow sound that seems to shake his entire body. It’s  _ wrong,  _ but not the wrong of the Distortion. It’s the wrong of someone who has just realized a terrible truth, and can do nothing but laugh and laugh. He grips the windowsill hard, presses his forehead against the cool glass, trembling and making inhuman noises. _

_ Mike has absolutely no idea what to do. _

MIKE: It’s, um, it’s okay? Damn, we’re both really going through it today, aren’t we?

MICHAEL: Oh, it isn’t about  _ plans, _ Mike Crew; I have none of those. None whatsoever.

_ He wipes his eyes, and turns to Mike with the biggest smile on his face. _

MICHAEL: But even a failed ritual can be such a beautiful source of  _ creation, _ don’t you think? The Panopticon, much as I may despise such a device, came from the Watcher’s Crown. Then again… what is to become of the careful work of an entity’s devotees? Pounds and pounds of meat, gathered over hundreds of years? A shining star of pure darkness? A beautiful, impossible work of architecture, spiralling into all the nooks and crannies beyond reality, beyond comprehension, wrapped up in boundless thresholds and uncanny reflections and the cacophony of true sacred geometry? It was  _ wonderful, _ Mike. It was  _ glorious. _

MIKE: It… it sounds it.

_ Michael whips around, eyes boring into Mike, no longer smiling. _

MICHAEL: Did you know Jan Kilbride?

MIKE: What? I… think Simon did.

MICHAEL: Do you know how he died?

MIKE: They… the Archives took him, didn’t they. Dismembered him and threw him into the Buried.

MICHAEL,  _ smiling cruelly: _ What a noble sacrifice.

MIKE: I’m sure he wouldn’t have volunteered.

MICHAEL: Especially not if he had known that it was  _ all for nothing. _

_ Mike’s eyes widen. _

MIKE: They didn’t know that at the time.

MICHAEL: No. We didn’t. I met him, you know. I read his statement. I listened to Gertrude Robinson muse over the nature of the Buried. Its pit. The Sunken Sky. I didn’t realize what exactly she did to him until after it was over. She said it was necessary. It  _ wasn’t. _

MIKE,  _ quietly: _ This… isn’t about Jan Kilbride, isn’t it.

MICHAEL: Oh, it is. I thought I’d use an example you might be familiar with. Do you think he’s still down there? Do you think he still has a  _ consciousness? _ No matter that he’s dead. It wants you to feel its pain, its choking.

MIKE: Yes. I know. I know that all too well.

MICHAEL: I wonder about the rest of them. Those poor souls who gave their existences to destroy rituals that, if your friend Mr. Fairchild is to be believed, were never going to succeed in the first place. All that effort, building up something so monumental. Would it have been worse to see it all collapse in on itself until it was as nonexistent as its constituents?

_ He begins to shake again. _

MICHAEL: Perhaps that inevitability is a relief. Perhaps the net difference of the two scenarios—the one in which there wasn’t any interference, and the one in which there was—is positive. In one, there is utter failure. Destruction. In the other, there is failure, yes, but there is also  _ creation,  _ and what could be more beautiful than that? Than  _ becoming complete, _ despite the pain? And that completeness continues on, even now, perhaps in much grander ways than it had before, unmarred by silly thoughts such as revenge. But there is still Michael Shelley. Poor, disposable Michael Shelley. He never had a purpose. Because his only purpose was a lie, and then his purpose was  _ to _ lie, and now it is nothing at all.

_ Another giggle tumbles from his lips, and he breaks into that awful, awful laughter, swaying slightly from side to side. Mike looks horrified. He grabs Michael’s upper arms in an attempt to steady him. _

MIKE: No—no, no, listen, it’s okay, we can figure it out; you’ve still got  _ something— _

MICHAEL,  _ still laughing: _ No I don’t.

MIKE: Well, at the very least you’ve got  _ me, _ okay? Look, come here, sit down.

_ He guides Michael to the bed and makes him sit, then perches anxiously beside him. _

MIKE: What… did you do before you were the Distortion?

MICHAEL,  _ quietly: _ I worked for the Magnus Archives.

MIKE:  _ Right. _ Never mind—

MICHAEL: Don’t you see? It’s out of our hands now.

_ He falls backward into the center of the bed, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan, eyes blank, mouth quirked in a deformed smile. _

MICHAEL: The powers were always beyond our reach. We know nothing. There is  _ nothing; _ there is only fear, and the rest is silence, isn’t it? You were right… you were right; the universe is so vast and empty and we are but tiny slivers of something that could never become whole…

_ He laughs and laughs and laughs. Mike leans over him, desperately clamps his hands over Michael’s mouth. _

MIKE: What happened to figuring something out together??  _ Yes, _ the world is vast! Yes, life is meaningless! Yes, none of us know what we’re doing! I get this shit from Simon all the time, and believe me, I am fully aware of our own insignificance—hell, I’d even have rejoiced at it, once upon a time—but this is not what we’re doing right now. Not when I’ve been trapped in a Buried half-existence for two months. Not when I still feel that pressure on my chest, on my lungs, screaming to me that I  _ am _ here, that I  _ am _ dying, that I am the center of gravity and everything is converging around me. Sure, we can make-believe romance all we want, but right now can we make-believe that everything is normal and we both have a reason to  _ live?? _

_ He removes his trembling hands from Michael’s mouth and brings them up to caress the sides of his face. _

MICHAEL: …Okay.

_ He smiles, weakly, sincerely. Mike exhales, collapsing on top of Michael, burying his face in his chest. Michael wraps his arms around Mike and closes his eyes. _

MIKE: Good. Great. It’s not so hard to just… continue, for now, is it?

MICHAEL: I suppose that’s the least we can do.

_ Beat. They lay there in each other’s arms—more out of necessity, it seems, than any great yearning for contact. _

_ Michael’s eyes blink open. His voice is quiet and somewhat hoarse. _

MICHAEL: Do humans do this every single day? Live in their own minds?

MIKE,  _ slightly muffled: _ I suppose most do, yeah.

MICHAEL: It echoes. I do not like my thoughts being so  _ real. _

MIKE: Now you’ve got accountability for them, huh? Not just the Spiral feeding you impulses.

MICHAEL:  _ Feeding? _ I  _ was _ the Spiral, and I was not the Spiral. But where do thoughts originate, anyways? Why do they sometimes appear uninvited, even in a so-called normal mind?

MIKE: Because we can never know everything about our own brains.

MICHAEL: Hmm. Or others’ brains. Does that epistemic asymmetry apply to a fragment of a Fear entity? I suppose it must. Well, for the Beholding, that’s a different question. But for the rest of us… we could never know if an alien hand has its own subjective experience, or if it is simply an inaccessible extension of its owner’s own will. Does the hand know it is attached to a larger being? Does it counter the actions of its owner because it wants to be free? Or just because its behavior arises from the series of crosshatches and swirls that is the brain?

MIKE: I’m sorry. You’ve gone beyond the realm of philosophy I understand.

MICHAEL: The Distortion is no alien hand. The Spiral isn’t even a consciousness—though, of course, there is no way of knowing that for certain. And yet it was always  _ there. _ A helpless spectator? An agent of control? To say that we have  _ control _ over our own minds is a metaphor created from an unnecessary partition.

MIKE: You’ve clearly thought about this a lot.

MICHAEL: Michael Shelley majored in philosophy.

MIKE: Of course he did.

MICHAEL: But it doesn’t matter much now. Because I am not him. And more importantly, I am no longer subject to a Spiral form of consciousness. I’m alone.

MIKE: You’re not.

MICHAEL: You know what I mean.

MIKE: We’re just flipping through so many entities today, aren’t we. Buried, Spiral, Vast, Stranger, now Lonely. Web, maybe? For the whole thing about control and free will?

MICHAEL: Hmm. Yes.

_ Michael closes his eyes again and hugs Mike tighter. A longer, contented pause. _

MIKE: You would like Simon, I think.

MICHAEL: Would I? Because of the nihilism?

MIKE: You both like to have fun.

MICHAEL: That’s true.

MIKE: If you’re no longer bound to the Distortion, does that mean more or less opportunities for fun?

MICHAEL: I don’t know. Am I now more  _ free _ than I was? What is the relationship between purposelessness and freedom? Am I  _ free _ if I am trapped in a body?

MIKE: I don’t know.

_ All of a sudden, Mike sits up, eyes wide. _

MICHAEL: Mmm?

MIKE: Would you like to go have some fun right now?

MICHAEL: What are you proposing?

_ Mike jumps off the bed, throws open the window, and gazes downwards into the flat’s meager backyard. There’s a planter box directly beneath the windowsill—devoid of any plant life, filled only with crusty dirt. Mike pushes the window as far as it will go, then begins to clamber out with sure and practiced footing. Michael leaps up. _

MICHAEL: What—?

_ Mike stands astride the planter, grinning wider than he has in a long while. He hooks both hands on the edge of the roof, swings his leg upwards, and pulls himself up. Soon enough he is standing on the rooftop, arms outstretched as if to catch the sky. _

MIKE: Come on. It’s easy.

_ He kneels by the edge of the roof and extends a hand. Michael cautiously follows the exact footing that Mike did—being taller, it’s harder for him to get through the window, but he has an easier time climbing onto the roof. Once there, he straightens up, not letting go of Mike’s hand. _

_ Two people stand on a rooftop at night. _

_ MIKE, also known as MICHAEL CREW, is short and sturdy, a triumphant grin lighting up his face as he once again gazes into the sky,  _ his _ sky, the final vestiges of earthen imprisonment flaking off him and dispersing into the wind. _

_ MICHAEL, formerly known as MICHAEL SHELLEY (and perhaps THE DISTORTION to some, though they wouldn’t quite be correct), is tall, and carries himself with uncertainty, more affected by the chill of the night than he is used to. Nevertheless, he follows Mike’s gaze, half-smiling. _

_ They take in the vast expanse above them, painted in blues and blacks, alight with stars. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus it ends as it began. i’m pretty sure i have to call this a proper ending, since i couldn’t resist that final closure…
> 
> thank you for reading this strange and twisting tale!! i had a lot of fun writing it!


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